


Blue Is the Warmest Color

by butteredflame



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, F/M, R Plus L Equals J, Season/Series 08, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butteredflame/pseuds/butteredflame
Summary: The morning after Sam spills the beans, Jon wakes beside Daenerys and wonders... How can people tell what is hurt and what is love?Post-Season 8, Ep 1: Winterfell. Spoilers. Some lemons. Identity!Angst.





	Blue Is the Warmest Color

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [film.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Is_the_Warmest_Colour) Inspired by this[ song](https://youtu.be/3uiUHvET_jg) and this[ poem.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46473/if---)

Most of the time, Jon is like a rock. Hard and unyielding like any natural formation between the Neck and the Wall. When he’s moved, the source is likely trauma. Seeing Castle Black again the weeks prior had been difficult. Returning to the New Gift on dragonback was hard too, too, though breathtaking. Likewise, there is now the question of the crypts. Can he return to see his father, or his real mother…or can even dare to think of his real father anywhere else? Suffice it to say, he doesn’t sleep well the night Samwell tells him of his parentage. His dreams are fraught with words of the past few days, soaring through his mind as if they’re riding on the harsh Winter winds.

_Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all of it._

_What am I supposed to hold onto?_

_Whatever you can._

_That’s treason._

_What if he doesn’t want me to?_

_Then I’ve enjoyed your company, Jon Snow._

_Would she do the same?_

_It’s the truth._  

 

When he wakes with a harsh breath, he notices his chest caving in, that a strong and strange mood has come over him. _Shhh_ alerts him to Daenerys’s presence. Lying beside him, she leans on one elbow, hands clasped before her, hesitant—already watching when Jon finally remembers he’d gone to bed with her last night, haunted by the past few days and intuitively seeking her comfort. Her violet eyes are dark at dawn. His words stick in his throat.

“Your night terrors trouble me.”

“Your _visions_ trouble me,” he replies, taking her hand. 

She notices the quiet blanketing him but she does not judge. She laughs softly. “I mean it, Jon. How many times will I have to watch you wake from them? What troubles you?” The question is punctuated by the thumb tracing his dark jawline. He parts his lips, inviting a kiss that makes him tremble in her palm. They are always so busy, there are few times they get to be like this. No tightly cut mink gowns or nickel-strapped boil of armor to restrict them. No distant eyes judging their compatibility. No cold, for it is now buffered away by the healthy fire in the hearth on the east wall. Like this, he gets to fill her mouth with his tongue as Daenerys lines her body along his. Like this, she flushes all over, scalding hot, her thighs tensing futilely around his hips as his hand drags along her spine and pulls her closer. She shivers against him, trails her lips under his ear and down his neck, and sets her teeth lightly against his jaw, making him moan. The sound is high and pitiful to his ears. Like this, his heart aches.  

His tension skews the moment. She rises to her knees to meet his eyes, then dips her lips to his. "You can trust me. I will never hurt you, Jon Snow.” He moans again and catches her mouth with his, sending shaking fingers into her silver-pale hair and marveling at the feeling of being small in her arms. She kisses him long enough that he shifts until he can press into her hips and cup her breast, fingering the nipple. She gasps warm and wet into his mouth, thumbs catching his cheekbone, and finds his eyes in the dark. "I would never destroy something so beautiful.” 

Jon tilts his head back in wonder, eyes never leaving hers. The fingers of one hand curl over her shoulder, because he doesn’t quite believe she’s there. But when a moment becomes two—he feels her hand over his heart, the finger of another pressing into the fine edge of one of his knife wounds. When two become three—she dips her head down, his lips part under hers, and he rejoices in the promise of life between them.

His heart has felt this way all along. It makes him wonder, _How can people tell what is hurt and what is love?_

Their kisses turn chaste. Her huff rises in the air, bemused, as Jon tilts his head down to her belly. He draws his knees up so she can lean on his thighs comfortably and she combs her fingers through his hair. He must tell her. At least, he must answer her earlier question. 

“Often…I dream about the things that would keep us apart.”

She snorts. “That’s what worries you?”

Picking his head up, he meets her distracted eyes as she plays with his dark curls _._ “ _My love._ ”

“Hm?”

“We may soon be opposed at all sides. We can’t quite  _demand_ the lords’ acceptance.”

She holds her hand up, as if there’s a dragon on her palm. “You seem to forget the obvious.”

“ _Daenerys_. You are powerful. You are fierce.”

“As are you—” Her finger traces the scar below his eye. “—my love...” 

He smiles genuinely, but sadly, moving onto his point. “And we’ve both been betrayed.” He curls his palm into hers and rests them over his heart. “I don’t want us to suffer like that again.” His heart starts to skip again. “Just the thought of being torn from you…”

“Hush,” she says, hands gentle, voice disapproving. “I will not let them cow you. Or me. I vowed to break the wheel, to end the Kingdoms’ sordid game of thrones.” Threading their fingers, she leans back to hold his gaze. “ _Our_ people need discipline.”

His brows have risen to his hairline, he’s sure, for all he can do is marvel at the perfume of her wisdom and the playful joining of their hands. Eyes soft, he murmurs, “How sovereign you are.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” she chuckles. “We should hope others have listened.”

Jon almost can’t remember what had him so conflicted. His wide palm curls around the soft flesh of her arm, to study the touch of their skin, to feel that spark of life again. She kisses his forehead sweetly, then pushes him to his back and returns to his side, pillowing her head on his chest. It’s his turn to kiss the top of her head and to enjoy the weight of her. His eyes track to the ceiling of the lord’s chambers and watch the early morning shadows dance, fingertips tracing the delicate line of her ribcage, the ridges of her spine. Her fingers slip under the small of his back in the same way, and he feels her press her lips to any scars and aged, sometimes aching wounds she can find. Tears gathering in his eyes he thinks, _Some king, I am. Body broken. Soul withered. Yet so, deeply in love._ Her eyelashes tease his skin. She whispers into him.

"I will not bow, Jon. And neither should you.” 

He closes his eyes, ashamed. _If only she knew how good and well I could choose not to bow_. She leans up to catch his eye, arms tucked under her coquettishly, suddenly vulnerable.

“I know what would smoothen this contention. You could be my royal consort, couldn’t you? You could be…the only king I’ll ever have.”

He can only gaze into her eyes, heart soaring, stunned by what she meant to say all along. Only a moment ago his decision was suspended. But he’s beginning to see his way through this labyrinth. He swallows thickly, trying to get his words out.

“Daenerys…” It rises from his mouth like a prayer. “Dany, I have…I have something to…”

His eyes flit to the door, a heartbeat before an urgent knock sounds and they release twin puffs of irritation. He knows her. And she knows who that knock belongs to. Hurriedly shrugging on articles of clothing decent enough for company, they pass shy glances when they can, a silent apology for not being the only people in the world. The notion makes Jon’s resolve to tell her swell in his throat.

Unable to hide it, he turns to the hearth when Daenerys tells the guard to let her guest in. But when two pairs of footsteps rush in, he quickly reaches for his boil of armor.

“Missandei?” Daenerys asks. “Jorah? What is it?”

“ _Your grace,_ ” Missandei says. “I would not be here if it weren’t urgent.”

“Of course.”

Jon turns, then, and returns their nods. Missandei’s brows are turned up and Ser Jorah’s mouth has a tilt of regret to it. They share wary a glance, but Missandei speaks up.

“Jaime Lannister is here. And he’s alone.”

Jon and Daenerys exchange a look of outrage, but they say nothing.

“Every man wants his head,” Ser Jorah follows up. “I thought it best to stow him away while we await you.”  

“Good,” Jon nods.

“Fine for the moment,” Daenerys amends, her disgust apparent. “Why shouldn’t we kill him the first chance we get? You say he’s alone, Missandei? We never should have trusted Cersei.”

“No, your grace,” she agrees. “We shouldn’t have.”

She pauses significantly. Daenerys sighs, then nods to her old friend. They move to dress her, gathering a deep, smoky gown that makes Jon’s eyes pop and hairbrushes, among other things. Grimly, Jon straps Longclaw to his hips and throws on his cloak. He agrees with her—this is a major blow they’ll just have to live with. Ser Jorah huffs behind him, looks like he wants to grab him by the sleeve so they can leave the women to their privacy. But he tries one more time.  

“Your grace… Don’t go.”

“What?” she says, bewildered.

“I have something to tell you.” 

"It can wait, I’m sure."

“It can’t,” he presses.

“It _can_. We’ll have nothing to speak of if Cersei didn’t send her army.” She looks pointedly to Ser Jorah, who bows to her before exiting their chambers. Understanding her reticence and recalling his own derision for Cersei’s brother, the man whose son put his father— _Ned Stark—_ to the sword, Jon accepts her wish and takes his leave. On the other side of the door, Ser Jorah informs him that the rest of the household is readying to try Ser Jaime. By the time they arrive at the great hall, the lords of the North, the Vale, and the rest of Daenerys’s small council will be waiting. Soon they are joined by the Queen and her scribe and move into the frigid hall.

“How did we find him so quickly anyway?” Jon wonders. Daylight has finally emerged. The castle buzzes with activity. “I wouldn’t have suspected he’d reveal himself so soon.”

“He didn’t,” Missandei informs. “Bran cornered him in the courtyard.”

“They drew their swords?”

“Yes,” she nods to him, and Ser Jorah’s frown tightens, eyes glued to Daenerys, who gets more furious with each step. “What shall we do?”

“What of Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys answers. “This plan was his. Let him prove its worth.” To Jon, she asks, “What do you think?”

Jon frowns. “I don’t know. I think the plan failed. We’ll have to deal without.”

“And of Ser Jamie?” Ser Jorah presses.

“Let him prove his honor. We’ll give him that.”

He expects Daenerys to fume and does not judge her. In fact, the fire is bright in her and marvelous to his eyes. He tries not to stare, especially once they pass into the bustling courtyard. But it’s impossible. The truth rises to his lips again. _My real name is Aegon Targaryen and I love you. I am yours._ His attention is only stolen from the uproar that can be heard from outside the great hall.

They hurry inside and find the others—his sisters and Bran, Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos, Lady Brienne—all waiting for the guards to arrive with Ser Jaime. A few Northern lords mill just before the double doors, and a few of Sansa’s Valemen enter the foyer behind the Queen’s party. Most of the lords, however, are seated in the hall, yelling over each other. Lord Tyrion looks nervous but determined. Daenerys exchanges a meaningful look with him, then requests their advisors to leave her and Jon. She pulls him to a fire buffered in the corner and presses her lips to his shoulder before he can tell her the truth. Half a day since Samwell revealed his parentage, Jon remains conflicted. If the right time does not come, how can he be with her?

Daenerys tucks her chin into his furs and looks at him coyly. “We’ll be united in this, won’t we?”

Certain he’ll balk guiltily as soon as he opens his mouth, Jon says nothing. His coal black eyes measure her violet ones, which smile at his, despite the morning’s tension. Jon bites his lip, eyes tracking to the stone floor. If the right time does not come, how can he look at her? Before their questions can be answered, the guards arrive with Ser Jaime, who looks roughened by travel and hunger, but as sharp as ever. Her attention flits to him and then she’s gone with the others, entering the hall. Jon follows dumbly, blinded by the pain in his chest.

His heart has felt this way all along.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. In honor of canon!Jon Snow, Heir to the Iron Throne, an 8.01 Coda, maybe more of a timestamp, between Sam’s reveal and Jaime Lannister’s arrival in Winterfell. Or, a morning in bed with the woman Jon loves + lots of angst. Just how I like it.
> 
> Today marks the halfway mark for the season!!! If any curious cuties want see what I've been hammering away for A Long Way Home, or if there are any other such burning questions, drop a line, a kudos, or some good vibes. They all feed me well. <3


End file.
